Marco's Pride

He tensed. “Tonight?”

“Yes. The three of us. But you might already have other plans—”

“We do.”

She heard the reproach in his voice. He hated things being thrown at him last minute. “It’s not a problem. We can do dinner another time. Or lunch, too, if that’s better.”

The double salon doors suddenly opened and Princess Marilena stood there, a hand on each handle, her tall slender figure elegant in a trim suit, navy silk the color of midnight, that accented her narrow waist and long legs. “Am I interrupting?” she asked, her English flawless, just like the rest of her.

Marco stood up, a warm smile easing his tight features. “Not at all, darling. Come in. We were just talking about you.”

Her lips twisted. “No wonder my ears were burning. Tell me, was it good?”

She was crossing the grand salon, her heels tapping against the marble parquet and yet she only had eyes for Marco and he only had eyes for her.

“It’s always good,” he answered, his voice dropping, husky and intimate as Marilena reached his side.

His arm reached out, circled her waist, hand resting lightly on her hip. “Everything all right?” he whispered, the question clearly meant for Marilena but loud enough for Payton to hear.

Marilena nodded, smiled faintly. “Yes, darling, thank you.” Then she turned to Payton who had risen when Marilena entered the room. “You must be Payton.”

Payton felt a stab of envy. She shouldn’t be jealous. There was no reason to be jealous. She didn’t want a life with Marco—she’d had her chance two years ago—yet it felt peculiar seeing Marco so warm with the princess.

Not just warm, she corrected, but close. Comfortable. Payton had never been comfortable like that; she’d always felt nervous, on edge. But that was all in the past. Marco wasn’t her husband anymore and she wasn’t part of his future.

She forced herself to act, and she held her hand out. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Princess Marilena. And congratulations, too.”

Princess Marilena inclined her head, but didn’t take Payton’s hand. “Thank you, Payton. We’re very much looking forward to the wedding. The ceremony will be at the Duomo,” she said, referring to the city’s famous Gothic cathedral. “The reception will probably be here.”

“I’m sure it’ll be beautiful.” The words were beginning to stick in Payton’s throat and no one else said anything.

The silence grew weighted and Payton realized Marco and Princess Marilena were exchanging curious glances.

Marco straightened. “Payton was suggesting that the three of us have dinner together sometime—”

“A lovely idea,” Marilena charmingly agreed, her voice beautifully modulated. “We really should get to know each other.”

Marco’s heavy eyebrow lifted. “Unfortunately, getting acquainted will have to wait. Payton, you’ll forgive us if we sneak out? We have dinner reservations.”

As Marco assisted Marilena into the passenger seat of his Ferrari, a car he’d bought himself a month after Payton moved back to America, he found his thoughts returning to his ex-wife.

She was different, he thought. She even looked different. Something had happened. Something had changed. Was she having money trouble? Man trouble? Was it something with the girls?

And just like that he realized he’d just made another tactical error. She shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t have allowed her into his house. She was trouble. She’d been trouble from the very get-go.

As he started the car, Marilena reached out to rest her hand on his thigh. “Don’t worry so much. Everything will be all right, Marco. Everything will be just fine.”

His eyes met hers and he lifted her hand and kissed it. Yet even as he kissed the back of her hand, his thoughts strayed once more to Payton. Payton had a way of getting under his skin, unsettling him. And she was doing a damn good job of it right now.

In an effort to keep her mind off Marco, Payton set to work emptying the girls’ knapsacks, sorting out the toys and chunky books from the tangled bits of clothes.

It was odd being back in this house, she thought, folding the tiny lilac and sky-blue cardigans and stacking the delicate sweaters on top of the matching striped cotton leggings.

Although Marco’s father had died two years before Payton met Marco, the villa still embodied the great late Franco d’Angelo. Which made it especially painful when Marco moved out and left her and girls behind in his family house.

For the first few months she was alone in the house, she tried to keep up the pretense that she and Marco were fine. She tried to keep it together for the girls, too. But theory and reality are two different things.

In the end, she couldn’t do it. After their volatile separation, she couldn’t manage to be in the same room with Marco and act casual. She couldn’t make polite conversation at one end of the salon while he stood at the other. She couldn’t bear to watch him talk, walk, work—couldn’t bear it when he touched another woman, even if he was just merely helping her with a coat.

He was so comfortable with everyone, so easy with all. Except with her.

She’d heard that time healed wounds but the pain inside her didn’t fade, it just grew worse. Seeing Marco, being near Marco, intensified the loss.

It rubbed her raw, rubbed away her protective reserve, rubbed away everything until she felt as if she were slowly cracking up, falling apart, dangerously close to losing it completely. Just a glimpse of Marco was enough to shatter her all over again. One glimpse of him and it felt as if someone had taken a serrated knife to her heart.

The months of stilted conversation and tense existence took its toll. Payton knew that everyone watched her. Some were curious, and pitied her. Some were puzzled, and blamed her. And for a long time she tried to continue, doing her best to make everything normal for the girls, trying to make everything okay. But on the inside, nothing was okay.

And maybe that’s what everyone knew.

She was trying to act normal and it was just an act.

Finally, nine months after he took separate quarters, she moved, leaving the villa, Milan, and Marco behind.

“You’re settling in then?”

Payton startled at the sound of Marco’s voice. She hadn’t heard him approach, and yet she’d left the door open in case the girls woke. “The girls haven’t stirred and I’ll be turning in soon.” She sat down on the edge of the bed near the stack of clothing. “You’re back early.”

“I have a seven o’clock breakfast meeting.”

So he wouldn’t have time for the girls in the morning. Payton bit her lip in disappointment.

“These meetings were planned weeks ago, Payton.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“No, but I can see it in your eyes. You think I should be here. You think I should drop everything just because you’ve arrived.”

She felt his anger. It was tangible, a physical thing, black, heavy, threatening, and she stiffened. “I don’t expect you to drop everything.”

“Good, because I can’t. In September we’ll be celebrating the fifty-year anniversary of the House of d’Angelo. It’s a big deal, not just for me, but for Milan and the industry itself.”

She already knew about the anniversary. It was part of the fashion world buzz and she was as fascinated by Franco d’Angelo as the rest of the world. He’d been a genius. He’d dressed many of the world’s most famous and beautiful women. Queens, princesses, wives of presidents, international film stars, mistresses of sheikhs.

“A crew from England is here this week,” he continued. “They’re making a documentary on my father. I have fittings scheduled all morning and then they’re interviewing me in the afternoon.”

“Is there anything I could do?”

“You’re no longer with d’Angelo,” Marco rebuffed bluntly. “Besides, the girls need you here.”